Untitled

Now we're waiting on the sun to eradicate her mists and grow alfalfa to push her curly hairs out of her follicles and unto the dirt. We're waiting for the sun to evaporate the puddles left behind after a wet kitty shook herself off. We're driving through the neighborhood and I'm stealing golden sunset summertime glances into yards and driveways between houses and garages like I do into windows when I'm walking by houses at night. I spot a shearling hooded cardigan hanging from a wash line like Jesus Christ--arms outstretched as if to strike a flying posture, clothespegged at the wrists, hood drooping downward. The wool lining was dingy and chunky and it looked like wet gravel. The exterior was brown suede like a bomber jacket which was guilty of making me look like a fool when I was a kid. Don't let this be my memory of summer. Oh, don't let it droop and sway, all drenched and faded, reeking like a month-stale bath towel. Deliver me from this with haste on the crests of cardinals and on the spat pits of cherries. The wind in the evergreens along the perimeter of this parking lot makes them sway nauseatingly; entirely. We're waiting on them to stop before we can go.